Liquidation
by Iloveplotbunnies
Summary: For nine months, twenty-five days, and sixteen hours ago—both of their worlds had seized to exist and they hadn't been back since. Written for The Mentalist Reverse Big Bang 2012.


**Title: **Liquidation

**Rating: **M

**Disclaimer: **Honestly, I don't own anything. I reference a William Blake poem and the Hail Mary prayer.

**Summary: **For nine months, twenty-five days, and sixteen hours ago—both of their worlds had seized to exist and they hadn't been back since.

**Author Notes: **Written for The Mentalist Reverse Big Bang 2012. Miss Peg provided the wonderful artwork that inspired this piece over on livejournal, and it was so much fun to write honestly. I do, however, need to warn that major character death and sexual situations run rampant within this piece.

This really isn't a pairing piece either, unless you squint your eyes and tilt your head. Also, views within this story do not match my own.

* * *

In the motel bathroom, both cheap and unclean, Teresa Lisbon stares into her splintered reflection and presses her fingers—hard—against her bloody cheek, not even wincing as she does so. The woman in the mirror—a mere woman of forty-two with limp, dark hair, protruding cheekbones, and dark circles under her green eyes—doesn't look like her at all. She doesn't have much time to reflect, as the bathroom door swings open and Grace Van Pelt joins her. Both of them, once very much at the primes of their lives—she, a Senior Agent for the California Bureau of Investigation and Grace, a Junior Agent for the same bureau—now, reduced down to nothing more than mere silhouettes of themselves, living day in and day out with the realization that Red John is slowly hunting them both down.

Grace says nothing, as the redheaded woman gently pries her fingers—stained red, like so many various times before—from the wound and grabs the browning washcloth from atop the gritty sink. Lisbon doesn't move her eyes from her reflection and Grace sticks the washcloth under the leaky faucet; the murky water softens the material.

No words are spoken and she allows for Grace to hold the washcloth to her cheek; their bodies pressed close together within the small space that a tiny bit of coloring—the faintest dusting of red—returns to her ashen complexion.

"It doesn't hurt, does it?" Grace finally asks—her voice is still youthful and soft, with an edge of pressing concern—as she continues to press the dampened washcloth against the seeping wound.

"It's fine." Compared to Grace's voice, hers just sounds tired and haggard. "In the past year, we've faced a lot worse than this." She does need to glance at Grace to know she's wearing a small frown again, even though the younger woman (only by ten years) knows it's the truth.

For nine months, twenty-five days, and sixteen hours ago—both of their worlds had seized to exist and they hadn't been back since.

* * *

Twelve months ago, the coroner—a small, disconcerting fellow dressed in all blacks—had said the fire had been an accident. One of the other tenants had either left a stove on, or had completely forgotten about a lit cigarette, or one of the many electrical outlets within one of the apartments had sparked a mini flame, which had set the entire apartment complex ablaze.

Fires had never been under their jurisdiction. Fires deemed suspicious were usually handled by arson investigators, but never by the Serious Crimes Unit, unless a body was discovered amongst the pile of debris. Nobody had a reason to suspect foul play and yet, one of their own had been found amongst piles of collapsed walls and tarnished furniture at 7 in the morning.

One by one, charred bodies were recovered from the massive debris and tagged by the coroner; the young couple on the first floor, who had been trying to start a family. The six-month-old child and her single mother, who had been trying to kick an addiction to coke. The college junior, who had been trying to ace her Italian exam. And the pair of lovers on the second floor, who shadowed both of their lives with a squalid affair. But not his body.

The soft blues of twilight faded into the muted yellows of dawn, before the remains of a man on the fifth floor are recovered; the body, in a state of near ashes—a silver badge, found within a fire resistant container—and without a doubt, they all know it's Cho.

* * *

"Teresa?" Grace's soft voice causes the vivid memory of Cho's body—charred, scattered into near ashes, smelling of burning hair and flesh—to fade away and her throat tightens. Dying by the merciless hand of flame is a cruel way to go, she knows. The yellow-orange blades licking at your skin, devouring your life over a span of several minutes, as your chest inhales the deadly toxins blanketing the air. Her stomach lurches, yet she doesn't vomit; she can't even imagine how Cho felt, especially as the fire had consumed him with his wrists bound tightly together and in a conscious state. Rigsby had once said six minutes was all it would have taken to do that kind of damage on a human body, though Cho had most likely suffocated from the smoke after two.

She feels Grace's hand on her arm and she in launched back into the present; senses full of a dirty motel bathroom, an illegal firearm within the concealed holster attached to her hip, Grace's other hand against her unblemished cheek, and a blurry reflection blinking back at her. "What happened to you?"

The question makes her want to laugh. What _hadn't _she done? What hadn't they done? But she says nothing and leaves the bathroom to face their cramped living quarters for the night; one television with a cracked screen, as it croons the evening news—_"Coming to you at 11 O'Clock: Red John strikes again. Stay tuned for more details."_—one decrepit night table and matching desk remains littered with their dirty clothes and white cartons of takeout from their days of waiting, and one bed; the bedspread stained black and red, before she sits on the edge of it. Grace joins her moments later and they both say nothing, the television becoming the only form of noise in the room—a commercial about some new show with a blonde actor that starts in the fall and her heart aches—and before she knows it, she's talking above the television.

"The manager wants us to leave. He believes we've been inflicting our _disease _on other people. I told him to go to hell, and he backhanded me with his knife." Grace says nothing, but a gentle touch to her hand says it all. They are both used to the scathing remarks and the dirty looks for checking into seedy motels and asking for rooms with only one bed. They both used to try and clear it up—_"we're not together, we're just saving money."_—but eventually, it became a cover. A couple of newlyweds on their honeymoon; something Red John doesn't expect them to be. "I told him we're leaving tomorrow." She pauses. In her heightened emotional state, she had forgotten all about the food and now, it'll be one more night without something to tide the endless gnawing in the pit of their stomachs over. "Damn it! I forgot the food. I'm sorry."

"Don't worry about it." Grace mutters, clearly entranced by the television and the newscast—a nightmarish smiley face stares back at them, artistically crafted out of human blood on a white wall—but she does worry. Grace needs to eat. Grace can't get sick or die. Grace is the only person left in the world for her to trust and if the redheaded woman is gone from her life, nothing else would matter. Grace's hand remains on her own, and she can't help but give it a gentle squeeze in response. "Do you think he knows where we are?" The question makes her chest tighten.

She isn't afraid of Red John finding them. She isn't afraid of death finally catching up to them. She is, however, afraid of not getting revenge on the serial killer, who took away every chance of a "happy" ending anybody ever had. Going off the grid, changing names, not holding constant jobs is a part of the continuous plan to smear Red John's brain and life across a white wall.

Once upon a time, the mere inkling of revenge made her ill; it went against her morals and principles, and for a woman who believed in the justice system, she had refused to let her anger win out. Murderers, she had once thought, deserved what the courts would give them: the death penalty, several life sentences, or a permanent stint within a psychiatric hospital. But Red John had taken everything from them and justice, in her reconsidered opinion, would never be enough to soothe them or bring back what they had all lost.

"No." They both know she's lying. Red John's latest murder—according to the brunette newscaster—had been in Sacramento and they are an hour outside of city limits. The serial killer is tiptoeing the line between them and if it weren't for Grace's equal thirst for revenge and her own selfish need for somebody to care, she would have left to kill him hours ago. "Let's get some sleep." They have a long day ahead and she wants to leave before the motel manager comes after either one of them.

Grace concedes; she doesn't even bother calling her out on her blatant lie.

* * *

Cho's "accidental" death had been felt by them all.

The deep apologies left by the various outer lying branches of law enforcement (FBI Agent Susan Darcy) and the California Bureau of Investigation family (Director of the CBI Gale Bertram, District Attorney Osvaldo Ardiles, and Special-Agent-in-Charge Luther Wainwright) never did enough to still the anger and guilt that probably raged within them all, and as they all prepared to say their final goodbyes to a closed mahogany casket—_he was a good agent, a good man, and more importantly, a good friend_—she had learned that Cho's death hadn't been just an "accident".

Or rather, Jane had found out and then, he had told her.

The medical examiner from the crime scene had falsified both the public records of the horrific event and Cho's death record.

The point of origin (for every fire apparently had one) hadn't been an ignored stove or a lit cigarette, like the report and the medical examiner had originally suggested and listed. The point of origin had been a human body; Cho's, to be more exact. It had reminded her of Todd Johnson, who she had nearly watched being burned alive—his body flailing, the fire consuming every inch of his human flesh. Someone or something had deliberately set fire to an officer of the law and the medical examiner knew who.

Unfortunately, Jane had stumbled upon the information too late.

She had been the one to find the medical examiner's body in the morgue too; foaming from the mouth, eyes closed, half-filled syringe in hand. The ruling of his death? Suicide. The cause of his death? Poison, a supposed sign to Wainwright that the medical examiner couldn't handle all of the death anymore—_the Medical Examiner job tasks heavily, Agent Lisbon. You catch murderers, he doesn't._—but she and Jane didn't believe that.

And while everybody believed the Medical Examiner's death had been a tragic event, she and Jane scoured the private records for anything linking Robert Thyme to Red John.

* * *

She lies awake and traces invisible patterns into the moonlit ceiling from the slightly-parted curtains with her eyes, as Grace lies beside her. Grace is the perfect representation of fleeing innocence, with her hands rested on her abdomen, her chest rising and falling with every even exchange of breath. The longer she listens to the soft murmurs of sleep, the more she wonders when the first nightmares will start for Grace.

(It only took three months for herself.)

The demons of her past refuse to let her sleep yet again—_this is your fault_, speaks a voice that sounds a lot like Jane—and she turns her body to face Grace—_how can you defeat Red John, if you can't even defeat me?_

It's a good question, she thinks, as she squeezes her eyes shut and tries to still her frenzied heart.

It's just one she doesn't have an answer for yet.

A month after the tragic fire that stole one of their own, they lose another.

_An unfortunate tragedy_ had been suggested by another Medical Examiner, even though the remaining three members of the Serious Crimes Unit—she had refused to keep Grace in the dark, even though Jane had asked her too—had various reasons on why they doubted that ruling.

She had sent Rigsby home from work earlier, after another day of failed attempts to catch a murderer, only to receive a call nearly ninety minutes later from Sacramento PD. On the phone, one of the officers informed her about one of her agents—_Wayne Rigsby is your agent, correct?_—having driven off a bridge, before he had plunged into the dark water below.

_An Overzealous Driver Ignores Driving Laws, Plunges Off A Bridge _is what she remembered reading later, as Rigsby's car had slowly been pulled to the over lit surface; water bled out from the opened car window and softened the dying grass at their feet. Past the murky water and past the male officer, who tried to keep them all back with his hands and voice; they could see into the navy vehicle. Inside, with its black upholstery ruined by the stagnant water and the white waterlog airbag, spotted with blood from some invisible wound, deployed, remained Rigsby—the grey seatbelt strained tightly across his chest, head rolled back, eyes wide in panic, while his chest remained eerily still.

She remembered hearing the sounds of someone retching, as she and Jane had stared on. Death of unknown persons had always been familiar to them all. Solving crimes—day in and day out—had a price to pay, but the deaths of people they all knew and loved would always been more hard hitting.

Why would anybody kill Rigsby? In her mind, it had made no sense. Was somebody targeting the members of her team or were they just really random mishaps?

If Jane had known the answer to her question then, he had never said a word.

* * *

At the sound of something in her ear, her hand goes for her gun; the illegal fire arm, off her holster for the night, always remained tucked up under her dirty pillow. In her panic-induced haze, she pulls the weapon out and her fingers go to pull the trigger, when a hand is on hers in an instance.

The touch is familiar and without words, she stills.

The gun vanishes from her grasp and her eyes dart around the room. She becomes aware of the little beam of light that seems to chase away the shadows and how the curtains are fully closed, before she feels the warm tendrils of Grace's breath against her face. Her attention goes straight to the redhead, whose brown eyes are wide open.

"What time is it?" She asks, ignoring the visible distress across Grace's face. She assumes it must be early and that she had another nightmare, in which Grace had to witness. Her mouth tastes of copper and she realizes that she has probably bitten through her lip again, which is why Grace is concerned again.

"It's a quarter to four." Grace mutters and Lisbon closes her eyes, her tongue trying to wipe away the tang of copper from her lips. She tries to clear the nightmare from her mind, but it won't leave; it never leaves.

Red John has always haunted her dreams; his unknown face over hers, onyx eyes glinting in the darkness, as she places his silver knife against her neck and makes her plead for her life.

She never does—_go ahead and kill me, I'm not going to beg for my life._—and the silver blade goes straight through her, red life spurting from her arteries and coating the floor around them both in a bloody silhouette. Before she wakes and the dream fades from her mind, she always sees Grace's brown eyes on hers, shadowed with sadness, as Red John brings the knife down on her too.

His calling card though, until last night, has never haunted her dreams and her breath catches in her throat, as she remembers the way the serial killer dabbled his gloved fingers in Grace's blood and decorated the wall above them both. His smile, both smug and pitying, mocks her, as he stands over her—_seven of my sweet loves thy knife_—and his gloved hand finds the seeping wound upon her abdomen, before she feels his hand dance down her pale skin.

"I'm going to be sick."

It's all she manages, before she's out of the bed and in front of the toilet on her knees—her stomach churns wildly and her cheeks burn at the remembrance of Red John's soft lips upon hers and the feel of his gloveless fingers inside of her; warm and strong, rubbing at the inside wall of her clitoris.

She remembers his soft voice in her ear—"_I bet you're a loud one, Teresa."_—and how his hand disappeared from the dampening dark curls between her legs, only to be replaced with his bulging manhood moments later. Her body frozen in pure fright; eyes wide and mouth open, as he ground his body into hers—_"Are you enjoying this, Teresa? I know I am." _—and tore her shirt aside with his bare hands, to kiss at her breasts with his lips.

The assaulting images causes the bare contents from her stomach, mostly bile and water, to cloud the clear water from the toilet, as she can't help but dry heave at the invisible touch.

She feels a soothing hand on her back and her heaving comes to a halt, while she briefly wonders why Grace hasn't left her yet.

"Do you need anything?"

She shakes her head to Grace's question and stands from the floor, only to wipe the spittle away with the back of her hand.

"Let's go ahead and leave this place."

She doesn't tell Grace about her dreams, as the woman doesn't need to know about them. Dreaming of death and rape, she has a feeling, is a pre-cursor of bad things to come for them both.

And at almost five in the morning, they pull from the motel parking lot and they drive on.

* * *

A month after Rigsby's body had been laid to rest; they lost another member of the team.

Jane's death wasn't an _accident _or an _unfortunate mishap_. Jane's body wasn't burned, buried, or found within a body of water.

She and Grace hadn't even received a call to warn them or to prepare them both of the sight of Jane's mangled body from Red John's hand within the man's Malibu home, and the infamous smiley face above his body within his daughter's room.

His death, Lisbon remembered, was brutal. Blood had soaked through every square inch of white carpet from the multitude gashes and cuts displayed on Jane's body. And on the wall, along with the smiley face, remained a note in red ink: _you're next_.

The ink, she and Grace learned later on, turned out to be a sick combination of Cho and Rigsby's blood and they came to the sick conclusion:

Red John was behind every single one of their deaths.

In less than twenty-four hours after the discovery, she and Grace were already away from the CBI and on the hunt for Red John.

In less than twenty-four hours after finding Jane's body, she had fallen apart at the agony of losing yet another close friend.

* * *

She has only been driving an hour or so, when the front tire of the vehicle explodes and they have to pull off to the side of the road at a little past six in the morning. The sun is not yet up, their only spare tire is missing from the jimmied trunk, and she notices that they are in a spot excluded from all light.

Their cell phones have long died and she knows that they'll have to either stay until someone finds them, or they'll have to walk to the near gas station, which she remembers passing thirty minutes ago.

She opens her mouth to suggest what they should do, when she hears the rumble of a vehicle behind them and her hand goes for her gun. Grace quickly undoes her seat belt, opens the car door, and steps from the vehicle, before the sound of a bullet rips through the air and careens through her chest—the spray of blood coats the inside of the vehicle, lingers on her tongue, as the woman falls to the dark concrete sea below.

Grace's cries pierce the silence of the night and Lisbon is out of the car and at Grace's side in a split second, when she feels the smooth barrel of a gun against the base of her skull. She closes her eyes and presses her hand to Grace's wound, the blood paints her fingers.

"Running gets you nowhere, Teresa." Red John (she has no doubt it's Red John, because he's the only one who would use her first name) speaks. "Your redheaded love…" She stiffens; they weren't lovers. She and Grace never did anything, and if Red John was punishing Grace for that, she believes she'll kill him with her bare hands. "…tried to run from me, and look where that got her." Red John nudges her to glance down at the redheaded woman, who is trying to cling to her life and trying to take another breath. "I wouldn't have killed her or any of them, if it hadn't been for you, Teresa." She doesn't turn around to stare at him, as she continues to try and pray for Grace under her breath: _Hail Mary/full of grace/Our Lord is with you/Blessed are you among women/and blessed is the fruit of your womb/Jesus/Holy Mary/Mother of God/pray for us sinners/now and at the hour of our death/Amen_.

Red John laughs, before he speaks again: "I told Mr. Jane I wanted you and he refused to listen." He went after the entire unit for their participation in Red John's deception? He went after her, because she hadn't been murdered for his cause? "Oh well, because I have you now."

"No, you don't." Lisbon slowly goes for her gun. She is going to end his life. She is going to save Grace. Red John is not going to haunt them anymore.

"I don't? Hm?" Red John asks with a laugh, she doesn't turn to face him. "You can either join your precious Gracie, who you wanted to fuck…" The crude word from his lips makes her retract her gun, which has him shoving her atop Grace's bleeding body. "Or you can come with me and live. It's your choice." She can't see his face. She can't tell anything about him, but the sound of his trigger disengaging startles her into action.

Grace's body still warm under her touch, Teresa Lisbon vows to revenge her entire team, as she stands—hands and clothes coated with warm blood—and nods, before Red John hands her a knife.

"I'm sure you know how to use one of these."

She turns to face Grace—the redhead losing the battle to stay conscious and on the tip of her tongue, she mutters an apology: _I'm sorry, you don't deserve this._—before she drags the knife across Grace's throat.

And when Grace stops moving and her blood stops pouring freely from both wounds, she knows nothing else matters now.


End file.
